Shield Brothers
by AnExiledFrank
Summary: Ed protects Al, but Al isn't above or below doing anything to protect Ed in return, including manipulation and physical threats. Ignorance is bliss after all. Brotherly fluff and that's about it.


Author's Notes: Eh-heh, well this started out as a plot bunny about how Al protects Ed or not and it sort of…grew from there. Anime world, although with a lot (and I do mean a lot) of influence from the manga, so it could be either/or. Timeline, what timeline? Maybe sometime after Barry the Chopper episode, before Scar-san and the Homonculi. Toned down slight language, but we all know it's there.

Disclaimer: Eenie, minie, moe catch a tiger by its toe and see that's its not mine.

Shield Brother

ExiledFrank

The town they had stopped the evening and night was quite ordinary, quaintly sitting between two hills with a river running through it. The people were friendly, the buildings were sturdy, and there was mystery to be solved.

The first clue was the way the tailor looked at his brother's arm as Ed stripped off his gloves to have them repaired. It shouldn't have bothered Al as much as it had. He was used to people staring at his brother's arm. Automail, after all, was a rarity, especially of such beauty and elegance. It looked almost real, more than his own body that he resided in. What bothered Al, though perhaps bother was not quite accurate so much as concerned him, was the way the tailor's eyes turned shifty, almost hungry, at the sight of all that metal as he mended the long scratch in the cloth, then down right ravenous when he looked at the watch that dangled at his brother's waist, Brother forgetting to tuck it all the way in his pocket after leaving the train.

As the tailor worked, Ed continued his one-sided diatribe about Mustang and the military and Al should know that Mustang was an evil manipulative bastard, right Al? Al nodded and agreed when it appeared the right time to do so, but watched the tailor carefully and did not show the trickle of uneasiness that went down his spiky spine.

The second clue was when Ed walked into the bar. His watch glistened as shiny as his metal arm at the tailor's in the bright bar light for Al hadn't bothered to call him on the fact that his military proof was shown in the open. While perhaps it was far better than the much more common reactions of disgust and hatred when the watch was apparent to the public eye, Al was not sure he felt any better about the lecherous looks his brother received or the more appraising ones his way, as if they were deciding if it was worth trying to do…something.

Something that was not pleasant either to him or his brother and would probably not be considered the least bit nice or mannerly. Ed, as usual, was oblivious to either looks, ordering food in his typically off handed way and putting it on the military's tab, which would not please Mustang in the slightest. Double orders, three bowls, five more of those dumplings, absolutely no milk and, yes, he would like another round please. Al cautioned himself that he was being paranoid and beamed pleasantly to the servers while slipping his portion over to his brother unnoticeably.

The third clue, and the one that in the end made Al leave his brother's side to wander through the godforsaken woods next to the inn, was something very small, almost insignificant. Had Al not gotten used to having parts of brain always watching people, knowing they thought he wasn't, listening to people that thought he couldn't hear them, catching things his brother wouldn't and couldn't, he would have missed it completely. It was the whisper of two occupants, several tables away, 'It'll be tonight. He's the one all right. Mustang will never-," just as they were leaving to go upstairs and sleep as Ed passed them by. It was all he managed to catch, but it was enough.

His brother, oblivious and secure in his ignorance, was giving compliments about the food. Hit the spot and don't you know it Al, that most excellent stew, should have it more at Central City. In cases like that, Al was almost glad he didn't have facial expressions, for he knew his face would have been pinched in a frown, as bent in as Hawkeye's face when Mustang was gone for the afternoon, and his brother would have been worried and he definitely did not want that.

It wasn't that he didn't trust adults that made him so suspicious of very weak evidence that made him gather the hints together and come up with an equation that equaled something rather unfavorable.

In general, he was a very trusting person, a sunny disposition to his brother's black rain cloud if you will. It wasn't as if adults had tried to hurt him anyway. Well, besides Mr. Tucker, General Gran, Barry the Chopper and that one man that had tried to entice Edward into the alleyway with something that turned out not to be candy.

Actually it was somewhat of surprise he trusted adults at all.

That was all beside the point, he argued in his head. He trusted people, genuinely liked people. It was just when it came to his brother's safety, his normal, passive, fairly mellow (at least that's what he prided himself as being) self was put aside, with ease that most people found disturbing when they were aware he was doing it. Partly it was out of guilt because it was his passivity that caused his brother to lose his two limbs and he knew, with all his heart, he could have stopped Edward, and partly because he was sick and tired of people trying to take advantage of his fragile, compared to himself, brother. Being in a suit of armor really did have some advantages.

Sometimes, when he just done something his brother never could have done, a fuzzy feeling went through, almost like he had a body.

"Hey, are you all right Al?" he turned his inner thoughts away to his brother, looking concerned at him. It touched him in a same, but different way, inside him.

"Fine brother," he replied, savoring the softy gooey feeling inside, almost reminding him of the time he ate the soft goey marsh mellowthings that Mother had been wonderful at making and melted in his mouth.

"You're not missing Winry, are you? I mean, you could have gone with her instead of staying with me. I wouldn't have minded."

Al loved his brother. He could not describe the depth of his commitment to him. Giving up his life for Edward would be the very least of his sacrifice. Going to the ends of the world would be the least of the distances he would travel with his brother. His love had no bonds whatsoever. He also thought, rather seriously, that his brother was one of the densest people in all of Amestris, "Even if I miss her, I wouldn't abandon you. Someone needs to watch out for you, besides we're brothers. We stick together no matter what."

"You don't have to-,"

"How's your arm and leg?" he interrupted the long and, becoming continuously tiresome, argument about what Al should do with his life, that usually did not involve following his older, though not particularly wiser, brother, "You looked a little sore when you came out off the train."

"It's-,"

"And don't say it's fine because I will sit on you if you lie to me."

"You wouldn't."

"Remember Barry the Chopper a year ago? Do you know how worried me and Hughes were when we realized you went out without backup?" Ed looked down, hair shadowing his eyes, and Al relented, a little, "How do you really feel brother? Does it really hurt? I almost can't remember what pain feels like. I mean I sort of remember what it feels like, sort of a numbing pain, like when my joints get rusty?"

Right on cue was look of guilt on Ed's face as he remembered that Al couldn't feel pain, couldn't feel anything that was remotely human. No doubt it would have surprised people that sweet, kind, and naïve Al was not above using a little manipulation to make his brother admit that he was in pain, something that was almost as bad as trying to make him drink milk, go to the doctors, or make him give a report.

Of course most of those people were wrong about their original assessment concerning Al. He was entirely aware of manipulating his brother and even felt slightly guilty doing it.

But not that much.

Ed rubbed his shoulder, "It hurts still and I'm having a little difficulty adjusting to the leg. But don't worry, I'm perfectly fine."

"Ah-huh. Wonder how the warm the night will be. Do you think the wind will chill it all? I mean I suppose I should close the window in case the wind does come down badly."

Ed instantly wilted. "Okay, so maybe it's more than a little pain, but I can handle it. It's not as bad as before," Al waited in the silence, interrupted only by his brother's breathing, which Al did not need to do. Ed finally let out a breath, "It hurts a goddamn a lot. Is that what you wanted to hear? You're worse than shit-Colonel."

"You shouldn't call Colonel Mustang names," he tsked.

"He deserves it," Ed's face turned sullen, almost mulish but Al wouldn't say that about his brother, really he wouldn't, "c'mon you have to admit he goes out of his way to patronize me, makes cracks about my height just to prove his superiority, and then he sends us out on pointless missions he knows immediately after we've completed-,"

"Niiiiiiiii-san," he whined, managing to strategically interrupt him before he started full-steam into his, equally tiresome, tirade against Mustang. Sometimes, such as now, he wondered whether his brother had only two thoughts in his head, how evil Mustang was and his guilt complex. It wasn't kind and he scolded himself to think so shallowly of his dear brother, who still, after nearly a year, thought Al should return to Reizenbol with Winry. It was so difficult trying to be the younger brother sometimes.

"All right, all right. He's not all that bad," Ed said grudgingly, "but that doesn't mean I have to like him."

Al carefully hid a smile, which was quite easy to do considering he was made out of metal and all. There were rare times that Ed would admit any sort of emotion, usually understated. Perhaps it made him feel better, so he could pretend he didn't care about them. Idly, Al wondered if Roy saw through Ed's transparent mask and pushed it aside away for further investigation.

"Of course not brother."

They smiled at each other, or at least one did and the other tried in his best way to shape the metal to show his happiness.

The sibling remembrance was broken as Ed yawned, "Well I'll get to sleep then. Goodnight Al."

"Good night brother."

Alphonse waited patiently, listening to his brother get ready and put himself to bed, putting all his attention to peering out the window as Ed burrowed himself underneath the blankets for sleep, to appear interested outside. It was a little risky to go out and see what mischief the townsfolk were planning to do. Sometimes Ed would wake up from nightmares, thrashing into wakefulness. While it hurt somewhere inside, he was thankful that Ed never came to him during those nights. Thankful only because he knew he couldn't help, not if he couldn't remember what it felt to be terrified, chilled, and sweaty, and knew that he was, in part, the cause of many of his brother's nightmares, thus making the wakefulness more agonizing. Especially tonight was he glad that his brother did not come to him after those nightmares.

Other nights it took Ed a long time to fall asleep, restless at night, tossing and turning. Al would wonder what ran through his brother's mind during those particular nights. Sometimes Ed would talk to him, late whispers in the night, but it never lasted. Al never asked what Ed thought when he spent most of night staring at the ceiling, trying to fall asleep but thinking his little brother had and so didn't move. Just as he knew better than to ask how Ed's arm and leg really felt. There things Ed just would not, could not, admit, not even to himself or his brother.

Tonight, thankfully, was not one of those nights, where Ed jumped at every noise and murmured notes to the ceiling. Thirty minutes later and Ed's deep breathing of the truly asleep wafted into Al's helmet. If he did wake up from a nightmare, unlikely since the worst they had seen was a dead tree, he would not look for Al.

With an ease that had gotten better as the years passed, as he had become more and more attuned with how his mechanical body worked, Al slipped silently out of the room.

He was not surprised to see two guards at the door. A part of him should have been, if he had any faith in adults and a part of him did feel rather disappointed that it hadn't just been paranoia talking, eerily similar in tone with Roy now that he thought about that, but he didn't let his disappointment stop him from following his carefully thought out plan that he had considered after he had heard the conversation and had, possibly, started when the tailor had first set eyes on his brother.

There was one comfort in being a suit of armor, for all the other loses that he would never be able to recover. He could knock out people far quicker than as a child, with only a child's strength. A quick punch to the head when he turned, and the guard was down. The second guard tried to run just as the first punch landed. Al grabbed him by his collar, lifted him up, and then threw him hard against the floor. There was a sickening sound of bones cracking but Al remained stoic. Al had become very good at remaining stoic.

He moved the bodies, both alive though he could not say for how long judging by the bleeding coming from the second man's head, to the closet, drawing an array on the door to make sure no one could unlock the door, even with a key. It was the reverse of something his brother had thought of. Perhaps when he came back he would reverse the array, if he was feeling generous.

He continued his way out the tavern, gliding into the shadows like a predator stalking his prey. Only he had no apparent prey as the crowd that he had figured would be in the bar, was not there. They always were in the bar, gathering courage from the bottom of the kegs.

The bar was unoccupied, closed to all residents. At least to apparent eye.

Al narrowed his eyes. A chair was slightly ajar and a mug on the bar top was still full. He never had much trust for the apparent eye anyway.

He went behind the bar, grabbed the man by the back of his shirt that lay underneath it, huddling. It was a relief he was mechanical because the bartender was rotund, like a pasty-colored plum. The bartender gave one long look at the metal head that contained nothing but air, an empty shell, that he assumed, falsely, contained a monster of a man and cracked. He started blubbering before Al even said word.

Al listened closely to the pleas of mercy, the plan to kidnap and hold ransom the Full Metal Alchemist, where the kidnappers to be were currently gathering, and how he was just giving them drinks, that's all. Honestly. He continued on about how horrible his life was, which Al was not at all sympathetic to, how he had lost everything that Al understood more that he possibly did, and that it was all Mustangs' fault. At least, everyone said it was, because the last officer that had wandered through the town blamed Mustang, that it was his fault that they didn't live in a booming city of glamour and frame. To their twisted logic, kidnapping the Flame Alchemist's boy toy was the perfect scheme of revenge and eventual success of the town.

Al didn't bother correcting him that Ed was neither a toy, nor Roy's in the slightest regard, and that their logic was illogical and just plain stupid but that would waste too much time and be a lesson in futility. The clock was ticking, if he was to make any estimate of human nature and alcohol consumption. Six kegs were gone, passed around twenty or so men, it wouldn't be much long before they decided to attack. Possibly even succeed if the bartender was right on how many men came after them. He and his brother were good, but not that good, especially against grown adults with who knew how many weapons between them.

Without even an apology, because he couldn't quite apologize to a man that wanted to kidnap his brother, Al dropped him on the ground. He left the tavern without a glance back.

It was hard to be quiet as he walked through the woods. He had to concentrate on how much pressure his feet made as they hit the ground, not breaking twigs and stones loudly in the night, how much pressure his joints made so that they didn't squeak wildly. A wind tugged through the woods. The branches rattled, a few stray leaves flying in the air. He couldn't feel it, the cool iciness that went through bodies, chilling the bones, but he could see how it moved, what it moved.

Drunken laughter floated from the distance, the wind kindly bringing it Al's ears. Sometimes he wondered how he could hear, when he could neither taste nor feel. It might have had something to do with the armor his soul was transfixed to or maybe it was just one of the senses the soul retained after leaving the body. He never really asked but he was always grateful for such a little favor, able to hear and see the beautiful world around him.

The light of fire gleamed more brightly against the dark shadows; strange dances between light and dark. A group of men, unshaven and scruffy, their clothes slightly dirty like most mercenaries, but an occasional complicated stitch work, some bright metal that shined on clasp or belt, showed that they were, indeed, townsfolk. All men, no boys at Ed, and his own though sometimes he forgot he was actually a year younger than Ed when he had no concept of what it meant to grow old, and white hair gleamed next to dark brown and black. Guns and ammo splashed around them, like fallen branches from warped metallic trees. When he walked into the firelight, several jumped up, the more aware sort anyway. Then awareness spread through the camp, a stranger, a monster, had appeared, even to the half-drunken sort started to realize something not quite right.

Some, upon seeing a looming shape, terrible in the darkness, ran away before they looked any closer. Al let them go. Those were the men that had come along for the sheer kicks of being in a crowd and free drink. A few others stood staring at him dumbly; too drunk to comprehend that Al was in front of them, uncertain what to do now with a giant silhouetted by a campfire. It was the ones that instantly drove for their guns that concerned, since he was not exactly worried, Al the most. These were the ones that were there for an actual reason, held a real grudge against the military. They would not get lucky and kill him, an impossibility with mere guns, but they might get lucky and show that there was no person using the suit, show his impossibility that his brother had concocted.

It wasn't difficult to fight them, though, not compared to the battles he and his brother had fought. He could have been merciful, as he usually was, but he knew what those guns were for. They were for his brother, to shoot at his brother. Images of his brother lying on the ground, blood pouring from wounds that he could have stopped flashed in front of his non-existent eyes. A part of him knew that he was flashing back to some of the horrors the two of them had seen, memories that kept slipping away no matter how tightly he tried to grab it. He saw blood and it was his brother's blood, his much too small body in his armored hands, bloodies stumps with limbs that were sacrificed for a foolish younger brother.

One of the braver sorts started firing at the shadowed monster of metal. His scream as the bullet ricocheted from the armor to his shoulder could have woken in the dead. Not his brother though, not even riots of the city could wake his brother when he was that tired.

Still, that didn't necessarily mean that brother couldn't wake from it. He slugged the man across the face. The crack of a jawbone seemed even louder than his scream. A few others followed the first gunman's example, not believing that such a large monster couldn't be bought down by guns. It was just impossible.

That gave him some satisfaction for Al, because he knew he was an impossibility. No one should have survived what he and his brother went through and sometimes he wondered if it was worth him staying alive. Alive when he should have died on the fateful day, instead of making his brother a dog of the military, to be spitted on, looked down on, and treated like dirt, when he deserved much more than that. To be put into danger for no apparent reason except his own guilt when Al was one who really should be carrying it, not Ed, not his older brother.

Kick, and another one was down. Like when he was sparring with Edward, Al didn't bother holding back his immense strength. The quicker they fell, the less likely they would get up again. Punch, duck, and kick, it was barely a work-out.

He spun and give a quick double kick just like Sensei had taught them, although Ed had never been as good.

Oh, Ed was good, Al never denied that, but he had never been captivated by the arts of body movement, of fighting, of the thrill of stepping up to an enemy and giving it his all. Scholar through and through. He had been fascinated by words and lines, meanings behind them, the history and lore of everything, the literary arts rather than the art of fighting, though he was good enough in the later. Al, though, had been captivated by the movements of the body, how to concentrate each group of muscles and then let push it, use it, throw it.

A whimper broke through his thoughts. The man that he held by the scruff of his shirt, nose broken and bleeding into his gauntlets, was trying to gasp something. Al dropped him gently on the ground where he instantly curled into a fetal position. It looked like he had broken his hand the way he curled around it, as if protecting it and himself from further harm.

Al looked around at the broken bodies at his feet, blood spraying the ground and the weapons that a few had left, the cowards that had run from their comrades. He tried to feel something, at the destruction he had caused, even satisfaction that he had done his job. All he felt was numbness. He didn't let his brain consider whether it was because of the violence he had committed or because he honestly couldn't feel satisfaction.

He tried, almost in a desperate fashion, to keep hold of his emotions. Keeping them simple so that they wouldn't slip him away from him like his memories, trying to be optimistic because that alternative was indifference.

He could not bear the idea of him becoming indifferent. His lost memories he managed, Ed gave enough away that it no longer mattered, but he feared to become indifferent to his brother, unable to feel even affection for him, to one day stare into his brother's eyes and not care whether they shined or dimmed.

There was a shout from the town. No doubt the runaways had gone to get help. He should check for the alive, in case he had actually killed one, their lives slipping away in his hands without him realizing it but he didn't have the time, not if he didn't want himself and his brother to be caught. They would be gone early enough that no one would recognize him or be brave enough to confront them over this fight. He would go back and open the array, carry the bodies away to a safe distance, perhaps to the doctor's, and stay in his brother's room, make it appear that he had stayed by his brother's side all night.

Yes, that was what he would do. He had a plan.

On silent feet, he moved away from the battlefield, slowly so his body didn't rattle. His armor he reminded himself, but it was an empty reminder because it was hard to remember a life before metal and steel, indifference and pain.

There was no comment from the innkeeper, who kept his head low and moved stiffly from the bruises and aches he must have suffered the other night when Ed came down from upstairs, amazingly chipper for the morning. He chatted to the recalcitrant innkeeper, ate his breakfast, and was in a fairly agreeable mood. Al hid a smile at the gloomy expression on the man's face as Ed continued to prattle.

After finishing his food, exactly twenty pancakes and four large bowls of rice, Ed burped and patted his stomach.

"C'mon Al, let's get out of here."

"Sure brother."

They made their way through the town. This was one of the times Al was glad Ed could be stunningly brilliantly obtuse about people. He seemed totally unaware of the mostly terrified, not quite reverent and almost respectful, glances he got from the townsfolk. Al wondered what the rumors would be and found he didn't care. It would be nice if, for once, Ed would get the reputation of having a dark protector of the night, harming those that would harm him instead of fresh meat.

He felt a sudden kinship with Mustang.

"I should probably call Shitface Colonel," Ed said, as if he was reading Al's thoughts.

"That would be good, brother."

"Good nothing. I might get out of the doing a report to him," he burrowed in his bright red coat, "I absolutely hate giving reports to him."

"Maybe you'll get lucky."

"Prob'ly not. He's an evil bastard that way, Al. You can't reason with those people, no matter what you do for them," he lectured, "they will always find a way to make sure you do the same thing over and over again. They will do whatever it is in their power to make you do their work, manipulating carefully. I'll watch out for them for you Al, you can count on it."

Al almost thought about shaking his head at his brother's imperious tones and decided just to point out the telephone in the train station up ahead.

Ed grumbled something, which Al pretended not to hear as usual as he had already scolded him once, and once was quite enough, at least around this company anyway. They jogged their way up to the phone, though no one was in any hurry to block their way.

As it usually went, Al went to pay for their tickets as Ed waited for the connection to Headquarters to make his report.

Glancing back, Al was aware again how small his brother was. Even though all his energy, his vibrancy and emotion, made him seem much taller, Ed was not that big at all. In order to talk easily in the phone, Ed had to stand on his luggage, juggling on his balls of his feet as he waited for the connection. The worn leather below him wobbled with him as he moved.

No, he did not want to remember how small, how fragile, his brother was. Al glanced at his hands-gauntlets. Still no blood, he had wiped it all clean. No ghosts either, he had gotten better. He had listened to the news, whispering gossip, and heard there were causalities but no dead, as of yet. No curtains closed and flags lowered. Luck had been with him as his blows had been as careful as he had wished, no lasting damage other than bad concussions and broken bones. Enough though, just enough.

Tickets were thrust into his hand abruptly, bringing himself back into awareness and realizing he had stopped paying attention several minutes too long in front of the ticket booth. He squeaked out an apology, since that had hardly been polite, and moved away quickly, though there was no one behind him.

He made his way over to his brother. Judging from the way his back straightened, almost automatically, he assumed that Ed had managed to connect with someone. There was a muttered curse word and Al gathered that Mustang had been contacted. He tried not to listen too hard to Ed arguing heatedly with the Colonel, instead using his time to observe around him. The day was chilly, it seemed. Those few strangers that came up wore the coats buttoned up, scarves blowing occasionally. Someone mentioned rain in passing, smelling in the air. He wondered how one could smell rain. Perhaps it was the ability to smell precipitation.

"Hey Al," his brother waved him over, "shit-face Colonel wants to talk to you."

He could hear a tiny voice say, "I heard that."

Giving a disproving glance at his brother for such language in front of the military, not the language itself, Al grasped the phone carefully, "Hello."

"Alphonse-_kun_, how are you?"

"Well, sir."

"Good. Though I understand it's been rather busy there," his tone was mild, pleasant-sounding.

"Really? I didn't think so," he watched Ed coo at the birds and giving quick looks to make sure no one caught him acting foolish.

"There seemed to be some commotion of a metallic monster attacking a group of men camped in the woods right next to town. You wouldn't happen to know anything about that would you Alphonse-kun?"

"Colon-,"

"_Alphonse_."

Al winced at the icy tones, "They had guns. Sir."

"I see," there was a meditative silence at the other end, "this is twice now?"

"Three times actually."

"No connection?"

"Only an officer that said the town's problems are your fault or the military in general."

"Hmmmm."

Al waited a moment, "What should I do, sir?"

"You have done quite enough I do believe," Mustang's voice was sharp, before he instantly softened it, remembering that Edward was nearby, "You can't keep being the vigilante for your brother, Alphonse. Imagine if you accidentally killed someone? Do you know who the townspeople would blame or someone were to take a good sober glance at you and recognize you as the Full Metal Alchemist's brother? Not only would you get in trouble, I don't even want to contemplate the trouble Edward would get into if they tried to take you away."

"But Col-,"

"I know you had good intentions, Alphonse-_kun_, honestly I know you did, but you have to stop. Let me take care of it from now on."

Al considered the trustworthiness in Mustang's voice, weighing it in his mind. He did trust people, but that didn't mean he had to. He could see Mustang on the other end, wanting to finger his gloves but knowing that in this case, violence would not help make this mess any more cleaner, could see how he was hoping to reach Al's better senses, trying to reach a brother that was surprisingly difficult to pin down, despite being younger and, seemingly, more naïve. It wasn't even all that hard a promise to make, for Al really didn't want to keep fighting people especially ignorant peasants that were just misguided, not necessarily evil, no challenge either and one of those days, he knew, he would hit too hard, would forget his strength.

"You promise you'll find the person who is spreading the rumors and punish them justly?"

"I do."

Al let another moment pass, just because all of what Ed said about Mustang wasn't entirely inaccurate, and gave in gracefully, "Then I promise I will not do any more vigilante work, Colonel Mustang."

"Thank you Alphonse. I will pass on that it was probably a hallucination or something, no doubt caused by too much drinking and someone playing too close to the fire."

"Thank you sir."

"Just keep to your promise, Alphonse. No more vigilante work."

"Yes sir."

The phone clicked off.

Ed looked at him curiously, having moved over some time during the conversation, "What did Mustang have to say?"

Al put the phone back in the receiver gently, "Nothing, just keeping track of us. C'mon, I imagine the next town has some clue about the Philosopher's Stone that we don't know about."

Ed's golden eyes glowed with enthusiasm. Al looked at his brother for a moment. He had promised not to go after people, even though he knew they would, might harm his brother. He wished he could take back that promise, but he could make himself a new one. One that promised he would never stop protecting his brother, make sure he kept loving and holding onto memories. A promise that would only be broken when his brother looked at the world with bright eyes, when Edward moved in the morning with agony from his metallic limbs, when the two of them could really be brothers again, not just shadows of themselves.

The train whistled, making his object of scrutiny move. Ed picked up his suitcase, "Let's go, Al."

"I'm coming brother," he shouted, whispering under his breath to ears that didn't exist with a voice that shouldn't exist, "I'm coming."

End

-"kun": honorific, to an adult

-"ni-san": older brother


End file.
